Showing posts with label Canadian Historical Brides. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Canadian Historical Brides. Show all posts

Tuesday, June 23, 2020

Fly Away Snow Goose--Dreams







An Excerpt from Fly Away Snow Goose-The runaways have braved the wilderness together, hunting, evading capture, often hungry, often footsore. Now, after an entire summer of traveling, and encountering many dangers, they have entered the Tlicho homeland. Here they've found safety and a delicious supper at the campfire of an old man and his wife.  Falling asleep in one another's arms, the young couple experience powerful dreams. 

***

They walked among the stars, she and Sascho. They went hand in hand, their feet upon a shining path that led across the night. As one, they gazed downward, and Yaot’l saw all the paths they had walked, all the way from Dehcho, following the Horn River until it turned west, and then their wandering through the little groves, the bush and the muskeg, where the animals had watched them pass. 

The beautiful deer lifted his head, leapt across their path and vanished among the stars. He too, was now a soul, wandering the sky. He would travel there until he faded into the body of the Great Spirit, which contained earth and all its creatures, both two-legged and four.


Then, Sascho’s hand was gone and she was alone. For a moment, Yaot’l was afraid, but now she was winged, flying. And although his hand was gone, she saw that, there, flashing beside hers was another wing, tipped in black, bravely sculling the heavens! A pure joy welled inside, for she knew that she and her husband were but two among a great flock of others, flying just below the stars, as she and her tribe went soaring toward True North…

* * *

And Sascho dreamed...

He was a bear, a young brown bear, lying down, hips up and belly flat down on earth, paws extended toward a central fire. Fire—a strange companion for a bear—but in this case it was blue and cool and it barely flickered at all.

Across the fire sat another bear, very large, and back on his haunches. He was bluish in color and his great muzzle was speckled with white. He was big, broad shouldered and old.

A long silence lay between them. The strange cool fire set the shadows dancing. Sascho wanted to hang his head, but it was soothing to stare into the light. The great bear slowly eased his front legs down until his belly too rested on the ground. Then he curled his paws against his chest and settled with a deep sigh.

“Now you feel the burden of leadership. You and all your friends might have died in that flood. Never forget; as you walk through the Tłı̨chǫ dèè, trials of life and death are always waiting.”

Another long pause followed. A shower of small glowing objects fell all around him. They reminded Sascho of hail, except for the glitter. They hissed as they landed, and when Sascho reached a curious paw to touch one, it was cool. As he gazed at it in wonder, the old one spoke again.

“You are a young bear with much to learn, before the gift of ink’on is given. You are fortunate to have found a hard-working, wise mate who will help you.”

Ink’on! The old bear had said it would be his—the gift that had come to his Uncle John, the gift which had made him a fortunate hunter, the gift that had given him power to see what others did not, to be a fount of giving to his tribe….

And Yaot’l too—the old one had said that Yaot’l would ever walk at his side! The weight upon his young heart lifted.




* * *




~~Juliet Waldron
Juliet Waldron's Website



Saturday, May 23, 2020

Indian Horse, a review





Netflix, the other night, popped up an interesting title: Indian Horse. As soon as I discovered that this was a Canadian offering that had premiered at the 2017 Toronto International Film festival, I was more than ready to give it a try. My first guess, from the image, was that it was a hockey story with a First Nations' protagonist.


CBC Image

All I know about hockey is--not much! I watched the "big boys" play on Skaneateles Lake long ago. These young men played with vigor, a lot of shoving, falling and shouting. It was an exciting game to watch, which is what I did from a venue well beyond the area marked out for the game. No walls led to occasional danger for onlookers, as you can imagine.

I loved to be out-of-doors, even in the coldest weather. That 1950's lake, once frozen to a gleaming sheet, was a fabulous playground, as long as there hadn't been too much sticky snow to cover it up. Hockey is a sport of fabulous grace and violence, pretty equally mixed.  We all know the ancient joke: "I went to see a fight, but then a hockey game broke out."

It turns out that hockey is an important part of Indian Horse, but it wasn't "embattled underdog, Saul Indian Horse, finds glory and acceptance through sports" kind of tale.  Instead, the central subject is racism and the related residential school cruelty. None of the abuse portrayed in the film--or in the original book, brilliantly written by Richard Wagamese--was new to me because of the things I'd learned -- from John Wisdomkeeper and from research -- in order to become part of the Canadian Historical Brides project and work on Fly Away Snow Goose.  

Familiarity with these stories, however, doesn't stifle the horror of the medieval punishments inflicted upon terrified children who have just been ripped away--often by men with guns--from the only world they've ever known. Residential Schools, in the U.S.A. and in Canada, have a lot of sins to answer for.

Much of the film was set in a stark, industrial wasteland, which could be anywhere in North America, those dark working men's bars in mining/lumbering towns whose business is to chew up the landscape for money and spit out earthly ruin. "Glory" is a word which reoccurs. It is used by Indian Horse's abuser, the Catholic priest who also introduces him to a game where he can fly. "Glory" also appears in the scenes at God's Lake, the secret place where his ancestors once lived and to which Saul travels in one of the penultimate scenes of his spiritual rebirth.

The movie was beautiful and sad, but I knew from the hurry at the end that the source would have even more to say. I am just now finishing the book, read in the last twenty-four hours in one giant bite. What a powerful, spare writer was Richard Wagamese, for, sadly, he's already gone. I'm looking forward to reading more of his work and truly sorry he's not still here, busy sharing his hard-won wisdom and poetic prose.

The life of the author seems to have been as full of suffering and struggle as that of Saul Indian Horse.  One of four children abandoned in the bush by parents gone off on a drinking bout, the older ones took the younger to shelter in a railway station when their supplies ran out. Here the children were found and taken into custody. Richard and the others went to foster homes. He was adopted at nine by Presbyterian zealots who refused to allow him to connect with his 1st Nations past and attempted to beat the Indian out of him. At sixteen he ran off to live on the streets. Here, drugs and drink claimed him, and he went to prison a couple of times. 

Sheltering in libraries, he began to read, and through reading found his way to his talent for writing. Against such terrible odds, eventually, Mr. Wagamese became a successful journalist. He published his first novel Keeper 'n' me in 1994. When he died in his sleep in 2017, he was sixty-two and had published thirteen books, some meditations on life, some novels. Richard Wagamese was born Ojibway, of the Wabasseemoong tribe of Northwest Ontario, and how deeply grateful I am to have discovered his true and graceful writing.



~~Juliet Waldron

All my novels at Books We Love

18th and 19th Century novels, some romances, some fantasies, 
many semi-biographical novels about my heroes--and heroines.

Monday, March 23, 2020

Hunkered Down - From here to the NWT


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Here in Pennsylvania I watch with trepidation the progress of COVID19 across the world. I'm isolating, as most folks in the 60 and up age group have been advised to do.  I've already spent plenty of time in my local hospital, and have no great yen to return--under any circumstances.

My Grandma Liddle, (who lived to 99) told me her story many years ago about having survived the 1918 Influenza. She was just 18 when it came, and living in a boarding school in New York City when she gazed out a window and saw the bodies being removed from neighboring buildings by men wearing masks. I believe that not long before, she'd also seen the troops returning from World War I coming home, a rejoicing with bands and parades, that was nothing less than ill-advised with this influenza already raging in Europe. How she survived exposure, I don't know, but she did, and her many descendants, happy to be here, are grateful that she did.

At least we are not as badly informed as the folks who endured the historical plagues. We have some idea of how the disease works, of how it spreads, and even, thanks to electron microscopes, what the beast looks like. I don't know if that's any comfort if you contract this evil bug, but I'd rather have an idea of what the danger was and also get some genuine advice on how to avoid it. Imagine living in times past when people believed that diseases like malaria and dengue fever came from "bad air!" As scary as things are now, it must have been infinitely worse in times past when sickness came for apparently no fathomable reason.

I read tonight that Dr. Kami Kandola who is Chief Public Health office for the Northwest Territories has instituted a ban for non-essential travel. This is because of the dangers of this kind of highly communicable disease presents to First Nation's and other isolated, small communities, where crowding and close quarters living situations prevail.  Just one sick individual in a small outpost could infect--or, worst case, wipe out--an entire extended family group. 

Often, too, the only medical personnel may be a nurse, one that, no matter how highly-skilled, could not save a  seriously ill Coronavirus patient without access to the kind of high tech equipment that is needed to save the life.  Several reservations in Ontario have closed their borders with the outside world, because crowded housing is more the rule than the exception and a communicable disease such as this would spread like wildfire.  

I will end with this lovely video. I've read that young women from many 1st Nations have begun this spiritual work, performing a dance which is prayer for healing called The Jingle Dance. Each step upon the earth draws up energy from our Mother.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8A_fhx085s


I watched and said a little prayer...




~~Juliet Waldron



Saturday, February 23, 2019

Snow Goose Time





Every year the geese pass over in great numbers because I live in the Atlantic flyway. When I was small, my dad made a big deal out of the Canadas, because at that time, DDT had nearly killed them off. This is hard to believe now, of course, as the Canadas are seen as a golf course/corporate campus pest.  

In those days, though, the sound of their haunting voices would bring Daddy out of the house with his little girl in tow. He’d tell me another extinction story, the one about the Passenger Pigeons, although the last representative of that family had died a decade before he was born. These birds had gone from a population of perhaps 5 Billion to none in fifty years.

“Men still live who, in their youth, remember pigeons; trees still live who, in their youth, were shaken by a living wind. But a few decades hence only the oldest oaks will remember, and at long last only the hills will know.”
—Aldo Leopold, “On a Monument to the Pigeon,” 1947, from Audubon online
The goose represented wilderness as they flew and called in the truncated V arrangements typical of the early ‘50’s. Where were they going, I wondered. “To the North, to the shores of the Bering Sea, way up north in Canada.” The magical destination was now named--a world as mythical to a small American child as the Back of the North Wind.

The snow geese were a revelation and a delight to a transplant to central Pennsylvania. I remember the first time I saw them, just a few flying over our home, in the sunlight that follows a February snow squall. Light gleamed on their bodies against a blue sky. In a moment of late winter quiet—no trains, planes, snow blowers--I heard their high voices, sweet and whispery compared to the brash honks of their Canada relatives.
The magic of white geese with their black tipped wings reminded me of other mythologies—like those European stories upon which the Swan Lake ballet is based. The sight of them set off thoughts of enchanted princesses and frozen lakes and -- magic!
The snow geese that come through here have a rest-stop fairly close, in Middlecreek. I'd been there in the summer, on long bicycle rides. Once, though, I'd driven out in February and had been lucky enough to find a great host of migrants already there. 

I was simply blown away by the sight and the sound of so much avian beauty, some rising in clouds while others, dumping air beneath their wings like fighter pilots, landed in open water. There were snow geese flying and snow goose swimming and snow geese resting upon the ice. In one small outlet, like royalty keeping to themselves, were the elegant Swans.



Like a child, I could look up and imagine myself rising from the earth and flying off with them, joining the storm of wings. I'd find my place among relations, get in line and cruise across mountains and forests. I'd forget the past and the future and just be in today--the next patch of green, the next drink of water, delighting in the strength and power of my wings! 
This flight of fancy ended abruptly when an eagle cannoned into the cloud of geese and took one of the beautiful creatures. For an instant, seeing a limp neck dangling in his claws--a creature that just seconds ago had been full of life--I was stunned. That's when I remembered the rest of a goose's--or any wild creature's life--suffering through storms, the fox in the night, the insatiable men hidden in the reeds.


 Coming home from a friend's house last Sunday as the sun went down behind low clouds, I could hear the Canada's calling in the last quarter mile. Overhead sailed great Vs of travelers. Others were landing, in the littered cornfield behind a row of old houses. When drivers in front suddenly turned in. I followed them, and sure enough, from a back alley, I could see snow geese, a great army, taking a break, looking around, talking to one another, here before sundown. 

 I had the pleasure of seeing them up close--just for a few minutes. It didn't take the wise old leaders long to figure out that there were too many people here. Soon, too soon, they lifted up again and moved on north, in the direction of larger and more isolated fields. For the brief time it took for the great cloud to arise, I was a kid again, imagining that if I wished hard enough, I could grow wings and travel with them, looking down upon the wonders of our Mother Earth.

~~Juliet Waldron

See all my historical novels at:




Friday, February 1, 2019

February, the month of Love by Nancy M Bell



Find out more about Landmark Roses and my other books by clicking on the cover.

February is the depths of winter here on the Canadian prairies. One of my friends in Cornwall, across the pond, recently posted a photo of the snowdrops currently blooming in her garden. My world is full of frost encrusted trees, building, fences and long grasses bent under the weight of the hoar frost left by the ice fog of the past couple of days.


Valentines Day is the bright spot of February. It's lovely to receive cards and messages of love and good will at this time of year. It breaks up the cold dark days of winter. Although the hours of daylight have been slowly increasing since the Winter Solstice we still have a long way to go before Spring Equinox when the hours of light and dark are equal and we embark on the long joyful ride toward the Summer Solstice and longest day. When I was in grade school back in the 1960's it was a tradition that on Valentine's Day every student in the class brought Valentines for the other students. The day before we would create big paper pouches which we decorated and taped to the front of our desks. Then on Valentine's Day after lunch everyone would move around the room and deposit their cards into the pouches. Some would write who it was from while others would leave it as a secret. Even in those younger days it was always exciting to try and guess if one of the secret Valentines was from the boy I currently had a crush on. Of course, I never found out for sure, but I did keep certain Valentines for a number of years, in fact I probably still have a few tucked away in my grade school keepsake book. Those were all the rage in the 1960's and early '70s. My mom bought ours from the Regal catalogue. There was a pouch for each school year where you wrote down the year, the school, teacher, friends etc and then into the pouch went things from that year, birthday cards, pictures, report cards etc.

These days Valentine's Day is pretty low key. Earlier in our marriage, it was an occasion to go out for a fancy dinner, this slowly wound down as the time went on. Now, maybe I might get a card- this would be a highlight LOL- or he might remember to wish me Happy Valentine's Day without me nudging him. After this many years I guess it doesn't really matter. The romance is in the everyday living now not in the expensive celebration of traditional holidays.

I wish you a Happy February, Happy Valentine's Day and Happy Life!

Friday, November 23, 2018

A Family Tradition




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This will probably seem an anachronism in this day of tasty box cakes, but it's still the chocolate cake of choice at my house. It descends (as far as I know) from my great-grandmother, Emma Liddle of Argyle, NY, where, for generations, the family owned a dairy farm.



I've heard a few stories about life on the farm, but not really enough. Why wasn't I paying better attention when I was a kid?) The barn was down the road almost a quarter mile from the house, and it could snow like hell, then as now. It could be a trek at 5 a.m. in January when it was snowing, sleeting, blowing--especially before President Roosevelt's Rural Electrification Project had reached the wilds of Washington County. Those cows always need to be milked twice a day no matter what. 




I have my Aunt Juliet to thank for passing this recipe along to me, although my Mother, Grandma Liddle and Aunt Jeanie also prepared it. It has a moist, tender crumb, and, frankly, it doesn't last long at a family gathering.

Grandmother Liddle's Chocolate Cake   

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon soda
6 Tablespoons cocoa
1 1/2 cups buttermilk*
1/2 cup vegetable oil
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 egg

Sift together four, sugar, salt soda and cocoa. In a large bowl mix buttermilk, vegetable oil, vanilla and egg. Add dry ingredients and beat by hand. Pour into greased 9 inch square pan and bake at 350 degrees for about 35 minutes or until cake tests done. You may also use a 9 X 13 sheet pan, but the batter will be thinner, so you need to watch closely to be sure it doesn't overbake.

* If you want to make this recipe but lack buttermilk, pour one tablespoon of white vinegar or one tablespoon of lemon juice into the bottom of a measuring cup, then add milk to make one cup and use that instead. You can also substitute one cup of yogurt for buttermilk.

The original frosting for this cake was a thin lemon-juice & rind confectioner's sugar glaze. 

My Aunt Judy offered a another, more sumptuous frosting recipe. 

Judy Hennessy's Fudge Frosting

1 cup sugar
1 Tablespoon flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 squares semi-sweet or bitter chocolate
1/3 cup milk
2 Tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon vanilla 

Combine sugar, flour and salt. Add milk and place on heat. As the mixture warms, add chocolate squares and stir until boiling. Continue cooking--and don't stir--until it reaches soft ball stage ( a drop in a cup of cold water will tell the tale). Remove from heat, add butter and then vanilla, beating until it is stiff enough to spread. 

You may also take peppermint patties (judge the number from the size of your cake pan) and set them atop the cake as soon as it comes out of the oven. As they melt, spread them gently over the top. 


A friend suggests we start calling this "Gratitude Day" instead of "Thanksgiving." I like the idea. 

I'm trying to begin a practice of being grateful every morning for something as I get out of bed. Often, it's gratitude simply because I CAN get out of bed. As I get older that's one thing I've learned--not to take anything for granted.


Happy Holidays to everyone, wherever they are!

~~Juliet Waldron



Monday, July 23, 2018

Travelers' Tales



They live in a vanishing Eden, their spirits close to the land and the animals upon which they rely. Captured by another tribe, a new tribe- kwet'ı̨ı̨̀  - (Stone House People/Whites)--two teens are placed in a residential school patently designed to "kill the Indian inside," by taking away their language and belittling their culture. Yaotl and Sascho arrive as sweethearts; in order to survive as whole beings, they absolutely must escape. 

Storytelling, at least to this writer, is a kind of trance journey on which I hope to take my reader. The way may go through beauty or horror, boredom and sometimes horror.

Yaotl and  Sascho were born among the Tlicho, a perople for whom long on-foot journeys were a way of life. The early 1950's in the subarctic, where the story begins, is a land where many 1st nation's People live more or less as their ancestors have for 10,000 years, following the seasonal migration of caribou. 

Fly Away Snow goose is a captivity-and-escape story--the mirror image of the ones I read long ago where white children are carried off by "Indians."   Yaotl and Sascho suffer a variety  of trials that could all be filed under the 21st Century definition of "abuse" while being schooled in European norms at a Catholic run residential school. 
In the spring, like the Snow Geese, they yearn to travel North and Sascho, whose confinement is not as harsh as Yaotl's, finds an ally who will help them escape, riding the Mackenzie river northwest. Their courage and endurance and their  childhood education,living off the land, will be all that stand between them and death as they start the long journey which they hope will return them to their families.  



*****************




I went camping last week but am now sitting here, typing away while feeling exceedingly grungy because I have not yet had a bath. The house in which I sit has a cat-hair-on-the-floor problem of a high magnitude. As I type, the felines are yelling at me because they are mad that I went away.  Willeford has given me his welcome home bite, just to remind me who is the boss around here.

In my camp experience, I  did not sleep on the ground or among the leaves. I did not wear the same clothes until they fell into rags, like Yaotl and Sascho--although I sort of felt like that by the end of the muggiest days. It made me realize once again how pampered we are, but, oh, Lord! How I love the comfort of  my own bed, in a room where the potty is just a few easy steps down the carpeted hall--instead of over roots and mud and rocks. At 2 a.m. it might as well be in the next county!

On the way to camp there were some trials and tribulations. (Nothing of course when compared with any challenge my characters faced.) Today's trials are of a particular kind and are often automotive. We no longer paddle a canoe or walk to our destinations. We zoom along on Interstates at 65 mph (or more!) until a sea of red tail lights appears causing us to brake like mad. Then, it's stop and go for the next hour, advancing what seems to be a mere car length at a time until the road work or the traffic accident which caused the slow down appears on one side of the road or the other.

There was a traffic delay on the way to camp, an inevitable part of driving. The worst part was that I actually had to come face-to-face with the broiling July weather while the car sat on the  shimmering pavement. Windows down, the sun drummed on the roof of my old a/c-less VDub,  Boy, was it HOT! Diesel fumes were--fortunately--blown off a breeze, so I strategized my movements, a pilot fish beside a whale, in order to take full advantage of some long-haul behemoth's shadow.     

~~Juliet Waldron

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Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Vacation to Historic Saint John


Last year, in need of research for my Canadian Brides novel, my husband and I drove to New Brunswick. The French border guard lady fussed at my husband for following the car in front of us too closely when we entered from Maine. I laughed; we were already in trouble.

We headed east then south into the city of Saint John where most of my story is set. Situated on the Bay of Fundy, Saint John is a beautiful mix of modern and Victorian buildings. Unfortunately, the eighteenth century buildings were destroyed in a fire in 1877. Since my novel is set in 1784-85, that would have been a boon for my research.
View down Princess St. to Saint John's harbor


We visited the New Brunswick Museum and spoke to a woman who was interested in my upcoming novel. She gave me her card. When we returned home, we couldn't find it. Never did.
I did mail them the pamphlets I designed for On a Story Primeval Shore.

We went to visit one of the oldest remaining houses in the city, Loyalist House built in 1817. Their website said they were open. The door was locked. We tried again later, still locked. A lovely young waitress (more on this later) told us they'd been closed for refurbishing for a year. No one knew when they'd reopen. A sign on the door might have helped.
Loyalist House

I did get to meet Joan Hall Hovey, a suspense author in my publisher's stable of talented authors. After a tasty lunch, she graciously showed us her vintage town house with its beautiful Victorian grate. A very nice lady.

On the sunniest day, we drove up the hill to the site of Fort Howe, also important in my novel. The fort was built during the American Revolution to stop rebel marauders from harassing the communities in the area. Only a blockhouse remains of the fort.
Author at Fort Howe's site, on the hill overlooking Saint John's harbor

Afterwards, we sat at a restaurant on the waterfront, had a glass of wine, and talked with the waitress, a college girl, who told us about Loyalist House. A man danced in the lane in front of the restaurant. I wish we had a picture. He was quite the character. The waitress said he was harmless and did this all the time. We greeted him when we left.

I enjoyed my visit to Saint John, and Joan, and hope to return someday, especially to see the inside of Loyalist House.

All pictures above were taken by my husband, George Parkinson. (Gotta give the guy credit)


My Canadian Brides novel, On a Stormy Primeval Shore, called a "Fabulous Historical" by Night Owl Reviews, is available in E-book and paperback:  Amazon and All Markets

For more information on me and my books, please visit my website: www.dianescottlewis.org
 
Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the world with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives with her husband in Pennsylvania.

Saturday, June 23, 2018

A Tlicho Raven Story, A Tale For Our Times






Here is a Tlicho Raven Story, based on the one told by Johnny Mantla to Allice Legat and reported in her “Walking the Land, Feeding the Fire.”

Once a very long ago, soon after the beginning, the animals lived like people. They had villages together, hunted and fished together and married one another. Not only that, they hunted and ate everything—and, for the sake of the story, other “villagers” must not have been on the menu.


Raven could fly and see everything, so he was always well fed. The other animals came to rely on him for news of the caribou on their yearly walk-about, and other important things hunters needed to know. In time, he became responsible to the others, whose feet could not leave the ground. Raven and Wolf were brothers-in-law; Raven’s sister had married to Wolf and Wolf’s sister was married to Raven. Both Wolf and Raven were  Ka’owae and each had many followers.  Wolf was a mighty hunter and provided plenty of food and so he had many followers who ate up all the caribou he brought to camp quickly.


Raven, though, was more powerful than Wolf, because he flew everywhere and could see everything for miles around. He brought back information that everyone used to hunt. He was The indispensable man!

Then, one year, the caribou did not come and the village was starving. Raven and Wolf met as usual and sat down to speak with one another. Wolf said, “My wife, your sister, and everyone else in this village us starving. We can hardly move around we are so weak and hungry. Have you seen the caribou? Have you seen any game for us to hunt in all your flying around?”




Raven replied that he hadn’t seen any caribou or any other game. “We are all in the same predicament,” he said.

Wolf kept his counsel. He watched his old friend Raven, who was began telling a story to the others, to distract them from their hunger. Wolf thought Raven seemed very comfortable and pleased with himself.  While Raven was the center of attention, Wolf called some kids over and asked them to sneak a look into Raven’s traveling pack. “I think there is some meat in there,” he said.

The kids did as they were told and Raven never saw them. They came back to Wolf very upset, saying that Raven did have dried caribou in his traveling pack.

After he’d finished his story, Raven excused himself saying it was late and he must go home now. Wolf agreed and Raven left.

After he'd gone, Wolf asked two men with strong ink’on  (spirit power) to follow Raven. They watched him fly until sunrise. It became very hard for them to see, but one, who’d rubbed charcoal on his lids, had strong magic and could still see Raven landing at his village. And what else did he see? All the caribou they’d been waiting for, trapped behind a snow fence!



Wolf sent for Fox and told him he must travel to Raven’s home, set fire to his tail, and leap in among the caribou. The caribou, who panicked at the smell of smoke, would jump right over the snow fence and run away. They’d even forget how much they hated the feel of snow on their bellies in their haste to get away.  (This is why the tip of the fox’s tail in now black.)

Well, Raven was very angry when that happened. He’d become greedy and proud and imagined all the caribou were his.




Wolf and the others came and told Raven how wrong he was. “We are here in this land to help one another, all of us living here together. Were you willing to let your sister, my wife,  starve?“

Wolf and the other villagers put Raven in the middle of the circle and lectured him sternly. This was serious; people had come close to death! It was well known that those who hide or steal food from the group can be cast out. Everyone took turns telling how they and their families had suffered from Raven’s greed.

A decision had to be made about Raven. Some wanted to shun him, but Wolf, who was Ka’owae said, “Raven, from now on, you will only eat dead animals. People will live around you, but you will eat their garbage. Your power is gone; you can no longer kill for your food.”

And so that is how Raven lives today. He drinks the dirty water others pour away. When garbage is tossed out, he eats it. It is a humiliating and pitiful way for a once great hunter to live.

Johnny Mantla finished his story by saying: “That is how powerful Ka’owae were in the old days. They are the ones who are supposed to take care of the people, but even Ka’owae can become lose their way and grow greedy. When this happens, the people can no longer depend on them. People who do not think about others should not be followed."





~~Juliet Waldron


See all my historical novels @